


How It Ends

by ponderinfrustration



Category: Le Fantôme de l'Opéra | Phantom of the Opera & Related Fandoms, Le Fantôme de l'Opéra | Phantom of the Opera - Gaston Leroux
Genre: F/M, Hospital, Illness, Marriage, Modern AU, POV Second Person
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-20
Updated: 2017-10-20
Packaged: 2019-01-20 06:16:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 611
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12426723
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ponderinfrustration/pseuds/ponderinfrustration
Summary: Modern AU. Erik is hospitalized and seriously ill, and with the help of the hospital chaplain, Christine marries him while she still has the chance





	How It Ends

This is how it ends.

Standing beside his hospital bed, your hand clasping his frail fingers, his thumb stroking slow circles into your skin. His hand is cold, so cold even with the heat of your own seeping into it, a symptom of what is happening to him.

This is how it ends.

The chaplain reading from his Bible, asking questions in his soft voice. And you are able to answer, able to answer even with the tightness in your throat, the tears stinging your eyes, your voice trembling but not with fear, not now. And you lifted the mask aside for him to answer, so the words would not be muffled. Not his usual mask, but an oxygen one that sits oddly with his lack of a nose. An oxygen mask to help him to breathe.

_Do you, Erik, take this woman..._

_I do_

_Do you, Christine, take this man..._

_I do_

Quick, simple. No need for complex vows. (No  _time_  for complex, perfect vows.) You never imagined your wedding, should it ever happen, would take place here, like this.

This is how it ends.

The chaplain closes his Bible, and murmurs, "I now declare you man and wife", and you lean down and press your lips gently to Erik's forehead, tears trickling from the corners of his half-open eyes. You wipe them away, and kiss his hand, unable to keep your own tears at bay, not anymore.

"I hope—" the chaplain says, squeezing both of your hands together as if he is struggling for words, "I hope." And he does not need to say anything more, not really.

This is how it ends.

Ends at a place that should be a beginning, with a ceremony that marks the start of a united life. A united life for other people, people who are able to marry wherever they choose, people who do marry because it is something that they (should) have years to enjoy, (should) have decades held in each other's arms.

Those were the thoughts that spiralled through your brain, what seems ages ago now as you came to your decision but is only a handful of hours. And now, the deed done, it is not your teacher, not your (false) fiancé (the lie rolled off your tongue), not your friend, not your—not your whatever he was because how could normal labels ever fit him?, but it is your husband lying beside you, with drugs flowing through his bloodstream to keep him alive, and his heart rate traced on a screen, and a machine helping him to breathe. Your husband, lying in that hospital bed.

Your husband dying. Each breath taking him closer to the last.

His choice, not to be resuscitated when—when the time comes, when his heart does falter. His choice, and you cannot begrudge him it, not when his body is failing minute by minute. Not when bringing him back would only condemn him to more of this, to longer trapped here too weak to go home, too weak to do anything but lie there, and hold your hand.

You lift the mask, and move it to the side and, for the first time, press your lips to his.

His tears are damp against your cheeks, and he whispers, his voice hoarse and faint, "I love you."

And you smile, smile against his lips, your tears mingling with his, "I love you, too."

It is not a lie, but how you wish you had not been so blind, had been able to see it before—Before.

This is how it ends.

And the beeping of the heart monitor is the soundtrack of your world.

 


End file.
